Thursday, October 6, 2016

I’ve wanted to get this put together since August, but I was
sidetracked by a rush of inspiration, completing three new short fiction pieces
within about a five-week period.
Considering the funky way the year has gone, I just had to strap in and ride
them to completion. That said, there’s
more story ideas (and a new longer piece started about three weeks ago)
bubbling underneath, but before locking in with fiction again, I believe it’s
time to deal with some of the wonderful books I’ve read this year.

Shall we? Oh, before we get started, there are links EVERYWHERE! Please click on them for maximum pleasure...or, well...

One of the key
elements in any Scott Nicolay (Ana Kai Tangata) story is a keen sense of frisson. He magnifies this aspect by diving into the
mind of one of the characters on such a level as to bring the reader fully into
the story on multiple levels. The
staging of his tales runs the gamut of possibilities, some of which include
starting off with the character already steeped in a bad situation and we’re at
that point where something needs to change (“after”--though, of course, then the really weird stuff kicks in), or putting the character
in a situation that gradually escalates into uncertainty (“Noctuidae”), while
distorting the world around the character in such a way that ‘normal’ is no
longer a part of the narrative (many of his tales; perhaps most of his tales, including the two noted in this sentence). In Noctuidae, we spend the duration of the
terrifying tale in the mind of Sue-min, who is on a hike with her boyfriend,
Ron, and Ron’s friend, Pete. She doesn’t
like Pete. We don’t like Pete. The core of the tale takes place in a cave,
at night, after Ron goes missing. The
frisson rubs hard as the circumstances deteriorate to a point where the
possibility of rape hangs in the air like a clothesline draped with soiled
laundry, all while something indescribable looms outside the cave. The moments in-between are fraught with
tension, fear, and exhaustion. The
creature might seem the bigger peril, but for much of the tale, Pete is right
on par with it. Toward the end there’s a
beautiful moment that tapped the valve on the tension I was feeling, finally
able to breathe again, though a few paragraphs later, I realize it was only the
loosening/readjustment of a noose before having the chair kicked out from
beneath me. Hope may play a role in the
motivations of the characters, but ultimately, hope is the lie they’ve
succumbed to in this powerful tale of truly weird and truly human horrors heightened
to unbearable.

Happiness. We all
want it, but our paths are distinctly different in what exactly happiness is,
and how we attain it. Benny’s got issues,
but perhaps these issues have been made static by medication meant to help, yet
only really stalling any- and every- thing in his life. Benny is already afraid of living--of life
itself, really--until an incident at his therapist’s office, and a friendship
to make Kafka smile changes things for him.
Perhaps Stag in Flight is a love story.
Perhaps it’s a mad fantasy, a twisting of the fabric of reality as
triggered by Benny’s mind. Perhaps it’s
about one man achieving a form of unexpected, surreal happiness.

Perhaps…

Using taut lines and clipped language, not unlike what a
chorus of insects sounds like, Miskowski (Knock Knock + the just released,
Muscadines, which I also will be reviewing at a later date) shows us once again why she is one
of our finest writers with this absurd and, in a way, beautiful tale. Stylistically, the story ‘feels’ like it’s
from another era, yet the focus keeps it firmly in the here and now.

Since I dig insects, the excellent artwork by Nick Gucker appeals
to me. It is grotesque and, as with the
tale, rather beautiful.

Join Gary, his older sister Abby, and their mother, Martha,
as they look to enjoy a relaxing afternoon swimming in the pool at the recreation
center. Seems everybody else has the
same idea, so the pool is overflowing with bodies.

Just another normal day in the middle of a hot summer,
right?

Far from it…

Fracassi expertly layers other characters and a gradually tightening thread of anxiety into
the seemingly joyful setting, relayed to the reader mostly through the mind and
eyes of Gary. Some of the anxiety is palpable,
as his sister is dragged into a real-life situation fraught with menace. Even beyond that, though, the tension twists
into a knot…and then normal is shown the door...and horror takes the reins. What happens as things escalate to a breaking
point is wild, shocking, unexpected…and brilliantly imagined as Fracassi takes
us to a place where…well, let’s just say, what he introduces to the situation
has curious influence over many, and is hungry, so hungry.

Fracassi’s previous chapbook, Mother, crawled under my skin with a truly unnerving finale. With Altar, he does it again, with a master’s
touch. Definitely a writer I will be
following.

Ballingrud’s North American Lake Monsters was a debut
collection that put him firmly on the literary horror map. Horror from a different angle. Writing that sings.

The Visible Filth follows Will and his girlfriend by
default, Carrie, as well as his actual love interest, Alicia, her new
boyfriend, Jeffrey, and Eric, “a plug of muscle and charisma,” who turns into
an asshole when he drinks too much. That
drinking leads to a bloody fight at the bar Will works at (and where Eric lives
upstairs), after which Will finds a cell phone left behind by a group of
college kids. What the cell phone
contains infects both Will and Carrie, and sets a harrowing row of dominoes
tumbling, ending in a place so bleak and shocking it knocked me sideways. Actually, replace dominoes with cockroaches,
as they’re scuttling around everywhere in this horrific tale.

Seems Ballingrud had fun writing this tale, leisurely
mounting the terror until it’s almost intolerable. But as with everything I’ve
read from him, he writes it with such shimmering precision, one cannot look away. Even if one really, really wants to. It’s all rather mesmerizing.

Perhaps with his words, he’s infected the reader, just as
the cell phone did to poor Will.

Intermission (a break between chapbooks and collections):
How about some poetry?

The poems in The Operating Theater dissect with unflinching
clarity what it means to be human; a human who feels too much. It’s a condition that constantly breaks down
like-minded souls, yet we find a way to push through, rise above the waterline,
gulp fresh air…before dipping back down into the depths of pain. These poems are raw, extremely visceral (“Holy Father Violation”),
devastatingly heartbreaking (“The Right Time to Move On”), and even brutally
fucked up, guilt-driven, no reason spared, all reason splayed open, all
contemplation laced with poisonous self-emasculation (“The Loser Manifesto:
Notes From Dirt”—really, this one’s hard to read, more an uncomfortable
experience like…like remember the first time you saw David Lynch’s Blue Velvet
and Frank Booth came on and placed the oxygen mask over his face and…yeah,
that’s the kind of discomfort wired into this one). Much of this poetry acknowledges a religious/spiritual
foundation, and much of it is apparently born of autobiographical experiences.

Whew! After reading
this collection, I am emotionally wasted, and gleefully so. Gleefully?
Yes, because when art digs this deep, there’s a kind of understanding, a
pact made with readers willing to go along for the ride: we are here and we
hurt, but we find strength in our art, and in those who are brave enough to
never turn away, no matter how deep the blade slices into the soul of
existence.

Ropes recently released a chapbook, Complicity, that I look
forward to reading soon.

Excuse me for this, but it’s what popped into my head when I
went to put some words down about Michael Wehunt’s fabulous debut collection,
Greener Pastures. I was inspired
in…well… Read on.

Drop a cube of sugar in the tall glass of iced-tea. Place a long spoon into the glass and mix
gently.

Sip.

At first, the sweetness is only a promise, a suggestion at
the back of your thoughts, where expectation resides.

Sip again.

There it is, the promise touches the tip of the tongue. You close your eyes to allow no outside
distractions.

Such joy. Such
relief.

But then the flavor changes.
Expectations disperse. You
realize sweat is beading on your forehead.

You open your eyes.

The tea is stained with something red. Something that can only be blood.

You pull sharply away from the glass, wondering if it is
chipped. A quick observation negates
the thought.

From behind you there is laughter.

When you turn to see who would be so cruel, you are
confronted by a mirror.

Your mouth is a splayed-open wound, yet when you wipe at it
with the sleeve of your shirt, most of the blood disappears. A couple more swipes, and your mouth is
suddenly sealed shut.

Screaming is no longer an option…

Yeah, well. This is a
lot like what many of the tales in Michael Wehunt’s debut collection, Greener
Pastures, feel like to me. He easily
draws the reader in, a thread of loss being one of the major linking devices—we
can all relate to loss--and subtly, irresistibly tells his tales. My favorite one is “Onanon,” which explores
Adam’s family history via an infected text, curious photos, and a mysterious woman
who seems to have been there for much of it.
What it all reveals, well, I’ll leave that for the hive-mind to figure
out…just read it. The title tale is
road-weary when it starts during the graveyard shift at a diner, then veers
into a really dark place between the gaps.
I was reminded of the best work of Dennis Etchison, which brought a
smile. Wehunt isn’t a one-note writer,
though, as the nerve-wracking found footage circle within a circle construction (and
constriction, really) of the “October Film Haunt: Under the House” can
attest.

An excellent debut from a writer I look forward to reading
more from. The writing is crisp, drawing
the reader in, passing the reader a tall glass of iced-tea. Go ahead, have a sip…

As a matter of fact, if you want a taste of what Wehunt can
do, and perhaps my inspiration for ordering the book, check out “Birds of Lancaster, Lairamore, Lovejoy” and tell me that doesn’t make you want more.

What Michael Griffin brings in his debut collection, The
Lure of Devouring Light, is a deep imagination tethered to the quiet side of
horror and weird fiction genres. Yet in
saying that, weird and horror might just be touchstones, as his real strength
is characterization. Nobody, I repeat,
nobody does relationships, couples in all stages of their time together, like
Griffin does. He’s particularly adept
with couples who’ve got some years under their belt, like in the masterful “Far from Streets,” which I’ve previously reviewed and consider a modern weird
fiction classic (and is included here).
Another high point for Griffin is his use of pacing. I think it shows
Griffin has confidence in his abilities as a storyteller, putting trust his
instincts. Layering with finesse. Atmosphere is key as well...so
what I’m saying is Griffin brings a jam-packed writers' toolbox, and uses everything
for optimum impact. With his exquisite
explorations and word-building, he’s painting a big picture, even as it might
be intimate, as in the outstanding short (mystery leading into hallucinogenic
terror into...?) novel that ends this collection, “The Black Vein Runs Deep.” That intimacy, especially in this tale, is
brought to the forefront as the reader occupies Colm’s mindspace as he
contemplates possible connections with Adi, as well as the underlying
mystery. It’s good stuff, honest, never
backing away, before the reality Griffin has built tumbles into a
fantastical place…that might just be an illusion.
Or is it cosmic and epic? The
ambiguity leaves the reader contemplating what exactly just happened…in a satisfying
way. The harrowing between-death (post-death?) tale,
“The Accident of Survival,” left me disorientated, perhaps because I could
relate to the confusion the narrator was experiencing. “No Mask to Conceal Her Voice” carries on
with a different kind of disorientation as Hollywood train-wreck, Lily Vaun,
looks to kick-start her derailed career, accepting an invitation to be in a
film by the strange director, Leer Astor, leading to a surprising revelation in
the finale.

All of this combines to introduce the readers to a writer
who has a full grasp of his talents, yet also invites speculation on where he
will go next. Griffin is one of those
writers whose storytelling demands a large canvas. I can see many novels in his future. No matter what, more Griffin will always be
welcomed by this reader.

(Muzzleland Press) <---of note: Creeping Waves is only $5 on the site until Halloween.

Matthew M. Bartlett made a major impression with many
readers (including this one) with his debut collection, Gateways to Abomination, a rare self-published book that left a huge impact. Creeping Waves plays off of the ideas
incorporated in Gateways, primarily the thread of the insidious WXXT radio
station, as well as his two other chapbooks published in the interim, The Witch-Cult in Western Massachusetts and Anne Gare’s Rare Book and Ephemera Catalogue, and combines, expands, and refines it all. I think of the GtA and CW much as I think of
Evil Dead and Evil Dead II. Like the original Evil Dead, GtA is raw, but sets a striking foundation upon which the second book uses as
a springboard, and furthermore, Bartlett’s writing has grown into a real force. Much like the second movie, Creeping Waves
plays up the gruesome, the horror…and the humor. The meatier tales (though often laced with
worms—just…just read the book) have real weight, but one cannot discount the
slighter in-between tales, as they add character and depth to the all-around
reading experience. “Night Dog” is
corporate horror that pushes latter-stage Ligotti, or perhaps Mark Samuel,
right off the page. It’s harrowing and
unflinching, especially when our narrator witnesses the transformation of CEO
Wren Black into…something truly nightmarish.
(I may have said too much, yet the ride is full of witty writing, so
you’ll want to take it anyway.) “Rangel,”
which I reviewed before, messes with memory and loss before it stumbles into a
bizarre celebration of Boschian proportions. (Just read my full review HERE.) “The Egg” is absurd and shocking and contains
“chickens and eggs and flesh and love” and a whole lot of crazy shit!

I didn’t read this “collection” as a straightforward
collection. It’s more like a mosaic
novel (thanks for this, Nicolay), where all of the pieces, the shorter and often humorous and/or curious
pieces, help to create an overall atmosphere upon which the longer pieces reach
in and drag you through the abattoir of horror.
The tone, the setting, it is all woven together with the skill of a
spider, and the mind of a diabolical mad scientist. Wicked, brilliant, and always entertaining,
Bartlett brings the goods and then some with this phenomenal…collection? Mosaic
novel? Satanic songbook? er…whatever the
hell it is, it works!

This was fun. It always is, but I am going to attempt to write and post reviews more consistently, as opposed to letting things stack up. I hope you enjoyed reading them as much as I did writing them.

Also: all of these reviews will be up on Amazon and Goodreads soon, probably next week when I get back to the states.

That's it for this one. Now...go out and purchase the books I've included here (at least the books still available, as a couple were limited--and write your own reviews.

These writers deserve your attention.

;-)

Painting by Andre Martins de Barros. This is pretty much exactly how I feel right about now...

Friday, September 16, 2016

This'll be a quickie, though I must utilize this blog in a better way, and more often, y'know? Yes, you and I both know this.

The exceptionally cool Gwendolyn Kiste asked me some questions, I gave her some answers. It's up on her website. This was fun and I hope you enjoy it...and perhaps it inspires you to purchase some of my books, even the latest book, which isn't linked with the other books, because it's not on Amazon yet, but will be soon.

(Yes, by all means, click on the links, they'll lead you places. Not Alice in Wonderland down-the-rabbit-hole places or, well...maybe, maybe some of them will...)

;-)

Next post, oh yes, one much sooner than a month down the road--within the next two weeks, damnit--I will be doing an overview of some of the books I've read this year. Some reviews and what-not.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

A few days ago, up-and-coming writer of dark, strange fiction, Daniel Braum, invited me to write a post for his blog about my tale in The Beauty of Death anthology. We'd been discussing the anthology on Facebook and I mentioned the origin of my tale, "Rotten Apples," which piqued his interest. So, click HERE and find out the origin for yourself.

Also of note, Braum's debut collection, The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales, was published recently. It's one I look forward to digging into, probably in September, as I'm wrapping up reading some chapbooks and collections and even a novel or two, many for inclusion in a blog post that will be full of reviews. I'll get that together after finishing a couple more collections. I'm in Rome for the summer, which means write write write...and catching up with reading, too! I need this. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. Braum's collection can be ordered HERE (print), and HERE (digital).

I'll be back sooner than later with that post with reviews, as well as some details from the three tales from my new chapbook, The Wrath of Concrete and Steel, which is available HERE via the publisher, Dunhams Manor Press, and soon from Amazon, too!

Until then...Rock On and Stay Weird...or something, what the heck?!
;-)

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

The Wrath of Concrete and Steel is my new chapbook from lovely Dunhams Manor Press. It contains three tales clocking in at close to 23k words. What's it all about?

Well.

I do not want to be pigeon-holed as a writer who does this or that and only this or that. I would like to think no matter what I do, the tales are distinctly John Claude Smith tales, just as when you read a tale by Laird Barron or Joe Pulver or Damien Angelica Walters or--you get my drift--those writers use words in ways that are distinct to them and their tales, and I for one am interested in wherever their muse leads them. Unexpected places are welcomed. Anyway, my point is, I believe many think, though what I write may qualify as literary (it has been said; really!), a lot of what I write is also...let's call it 'loud.' Weird...yet also Horror and, yes, the Horror is with a capitol 'H' and is quite appropriate.

It can get messy and graphic, but that's not all I want to do.

With these tales, there's perhaps a more subtle strain. (Okay, 'subtle' is a matter of perception; I know the last tale is, yet it's also got the freaky horror element. I know the first tale is, but it has its...moments...) I think they are more subtle, yet distinctly me with moments to please those who've enjoyed what I've done before, while also appealing to those who might be looking for something less...harsh? Sure, why not?

I am honored to have received this blurb from one of the true special talents in the Weird fiction genre, Mr. Christopher Slatsky, whose Alectryomancer and Other Weird Tales is an astonishing debut collection. He wrote:

John Claude Smith creates these dense atmospheres filled
with decaying streets and dilapidated cities in all their splendor, and he does
so in prose that gleams like a freshly stropped razor.

That is downright beautiful, eh?

In the same email, he also wrote a bit about each tale, which I hope he does not mind I post here. I was going to get into them myself, but this works juuuuuuust fine, yes indeed.

All three stories are wonderful symphonies of grotesque body
horror and the threat of urban decay spiraling into a deliriously poetic
squalor. They all piggyback and complement each other quite well despite being
unique tales on their own; a melancholy strain running through The Land Lord
and The Wounded Table—the former with the sadness of addiction, the
latter with the pain of love; and the pitch black humor of The Wrath of
Concrete and Steel, with its horror as absurdity, like a grinning skull
behind a phantoms brightly colored mask, or voracious sewer systems…

Oh, damn! I'd buy that. How about you? Ha, I read that line, 'grotesque body horror' and think many who've read my tales are thinking, but that's what you do, JC? But these are...different. Trust me on that. Or buy the chapbook and see for yourself.

I should just shut up now and leave the pre-order link, eh? (Why, yes, JC, please do!)
The link is for DMP, but the book will also be on Amazon, so be on the lookout there as well.
:-)
Link--> The Wrath of Concrete and Steel

I will probably do another blog post digging into each tale, but for now, I'll roll with this and the exquisite cover art below.

Saturday, April 16, 2016

A spontaneous post inspired by the flood of mad words being tossed in the direction of the one and only Joe Pulver today, Saturday, April 16, 2016.

I'll post my tribute (or whatever it is), then post a link so you can check out more of the tributes by some wonderful writers for one of our Masters.

***

(for Joe Pulver)

It’s 2:30 A.M.

It’s always 2:30 A.M. at the Bohren & der
Club of Gore.It’ a place, not a
band.A distortion in reality.A yellow dream, soundtrack of slow jazz.

Doom jazz.

This is how you spend your Saturday nights.

Waiting for her.

You’ve just stumbled home from the club. You’re not even sure how you made it
home.The door to your rathole apartment
is ajar.You push it open, slumping
against the wall as you enter.Lights
flicker, could be the TV.Perhaps you
left it on, but what of the door?Were
you so stupid as to have left the door open?So anxious to leave and blot out your existence in the bottom of a shot
glass?

Then you see her, the girl of your dreams.The flickering light caresses her as you wish
you were doing.Just as suddenly, she’s
gone.Was she really there?Perhaps it’s just a hallucination because
you’re drunk.Again.But she laughs, you hear that much.In a sustained, slow-motion flash of light,
you see her lips, only her lips, and want to kiss them.

But all she does is laugh.

All you do is want.

Head-nod wrecking ball drop and awaken at your regular table
at the club.

Cassie dances on the stage, slipping out of something barely
there in the first place.

That something is your dream.

The tattoos on her flesh move as she does: a winding
hallway, a door ajar, flickering lights…

At the center of her torso, you see the woman’s face just
beneath the ample swoop of bosom and desire.A place where the sweat tastes like nectar.Not even that could distract you as you stare
into the woman’s eyes at the center of Cassie’s torso.

The woman stares back.

You make the swift decision to rise from your seat and
approach Cassie.She undulates, rolls
her body like the unfolding, incoming tide, and the woman speaks.

Whispers.

You cannot make out her words as the slow, doomy jazz ricochets
like lazy shrapnel all around you.

Tuesday, January 19, 2016

I haven't written a blog post in...too long. With the publication of a new tale, let's rectify that (new tale? Well...you'll see).

Writing fiction is a strange process. I don't have a set method, though I do have certain modes of attack I like to use while writing tales. There's even different approaches when writing short fiction and novels--and all the gangly beasts in-between--with lots of overlap, but still, I have no set process, yet. I may never have one perfected, but it doesn't really matter as long as I keep writing and stories keep getting completed. Daily word counts may help, but being with the words on a regular basis is what works best for me, because word counts happen when I am writing all the time. Consistency, that is the key.

The point is, with a still formative and/or flexible process, some tales take only a few days, perhaps a month or three.

Other tales take...years.

Then there's "Those Who Dwell In The Periphery."

"Those..." is one of my Portland, Oregon tales. What does this mean? A strong element of the mysteries of nature serves as catalyst for the weirdness. But...I lived in Portland over ten, eleven years ago.

Yes, the initial version of this tale was written that long ago. It also had a different title, "It Is Not Time." I even sent it out for possible publication back then, but it was always rejected, because it had yet to become the tale it is now.

You see, some tales require time...and a willingness to revise and revise and revise. I enjoyed the core ideas within the tale, and much of it has remained as it was initially written, but there were key elements that didn't quite click, especially with the ending. And the title, haha. (The tale had three other titles before I sent it to Jordan Krall for the second issue of Xnoybis magazine. I remember changing the title within a week or two of sending it to Jordan to what it is now, what it was always meant to be. The previous titles: "It Is Not Time," "Fair Warning," and "Behind the Peripheral.")

Many older tales, I like to leave them back there. They are a part of my history, not something I need to dwell on now, as I continue to move forward with what I do as a writer. "Those..." wouldn't leave me alone. I really enjoyed the tone, the voice of the narrator, and most of the ideas, as noted above, and the 'reveal.' Perhaps because the tale was Weird and not just horror, I found myself repeatedly drawn back to it instead of letting it be and leaving it back there, in the dust of writing ideas never perfected. (You know about those, dear writers: check your files and tell me how many pieces of tales and even mostly completed tales await your participation, just to get them wrapped up.) But it took dipping into the tale over the years and tweaking this, revising that, to find it. To finally lift the veil off an idea and set it forth as it was always meant to be seen.

I've written on this blog about another tale I had published by Krall's Dunhams Manor Press, "Dandelions." It's similar in a way, a story from back then that was closer to what it needed to be, even though I tore it apart and stitched it back together, a process to make Dr. Frankenstein proud. It was also a Weird tale. The older tales that touch on this stick with me. I suppose that's telling me something, eh?

How about another connective thread, this time between stories? My tale, "Strange Trees," from my debut collection, The Dark is Light Enough for Me, also dealt with the fictional anthology within "Those..." I had mapped out a few more related tales and the mysterious circumstances of deaths and disaster that haunted the anthology. It's a really good idea, a collection of tales for a fictional collection, that in reading this now, makes me want to go back and--no, no. Maybe. No.

Moving forward.

(Another weird aside--look, I haven't written one of these in a while, so I'm shaking off the rust. The original title for "Strange Trees" was..."Shadows and Tall Trees." Yes. Like the U2 song...and the magazine. I don't know if Michael Kelly remembers, but a few years back, before there was the magazine, I had submitted "Shadows and Tall Trees" to him as he was the editor of...some other magazine or, well, let me see: 12-04-2004 I sent it off to Chizine. Michael Kelly [now head of Undertow Publications, who publish the annual Year's Best Weird Fiction anthologies, amongst other high-quality books] used to be an editor there and rejected it, but it was a really good response, according to my notes...and he mentioned liking the title and how it would be a good one for a magazine... So there ya go! A bit o' weird fiction history, haha...)